


the sea, once it casts its spell

by friendly_ficus



Category: Critical Role (Web Series)
Genre: Gen, a completely self-indulgent piece of fanfic, backstory speculation, fueled by my love of both the ocean and Deals with Unknown Entities, isn't the new campaign great
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-01-27
Updated: 2018-01-27
Packaged: 2019-03-10 01:41:03
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,362
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13494144
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/friendly_ficus/pseuds/friendly_ficus
Summary: ... holds one in its net of wonder forever.(Or: Fjord, the sea, and endless possibilities.)





	the sea, once it casts its spell

  Fjord hears waves in his ears no matter where they go, waking or sleeping. He wondered, in the early days, if it was the sound of his blood or his heartbeat or his soul, or whatever you’d call it. He used to wonder if it  _ wasn’t _ .

  Now he rolls over and lets the rushing sound lull him, a stray bit of flotsam, down into the depths of dreams.

\---

  “You’ve got a leaf in your hair,” Jester laughs, “did you sleep outside, instead of in the inn? That probably wouldn’t be very comfortable.” And she plucks the brown scrap from his hair, blowing it playfully into his face before going off in search of pastries.

  Fjord smiles after her and tucks the piece of kelp, that found its way into his hair in an inn in Port Damali, into his pouch.

\---

  It's a shipwreck that puts him on the island. Fjord's been clinging to a wooden plank for what feels like years, first paddling and now just drifting. He knows he will be dead soon.

  But the waves deposit him gently onto the soft slope of an unfamiliar shore. He lays there for a while, just breathing. And he feels  _ something _ \- the wind is pulling him, the waves are pushing him up, out,  _ hurry, hurry _ . Fjord feels young, like a child being called by an older relative.  _ Hurry, hurry. _

  The island looks small, with the moonlight blazing down. It's just the shore and what looks like a winding path into tall sand dunes. He can smell the sweet dune grass and gazes at its surface that ripples under the wind. He wonders if he's died, if this is some strange afterlife. 

_ Hurry, Fjord, hurry _ , something breathes. He feels a hand brush his cheek, turn his chin toward the path. It's impossibly gentle, the hand, or maybe it's just the wind. 

  And Fjord, ocean-battered and sore, achingly alone, starts walking.

\---

  Mollymauk's still asleep, luckily, when Fjord jolts into awareness. He staggers over to the window and coughs up seawater that splats down into the alley below. Fjord gently untangles the thin seagrass from where it fits snugly around his throat, and scrubs his palms roughly over his arms so the layer of salt flakes off. At least he wasn't hit by a wave this time, but the green fibers around his neck serve as reminder enough. 

  He hears Molly rustling awake, and isn't surprised at the sleepy, "Y'alright there?" tossed his way. 

  "Yeah," he turns easily, smiling, "yeah I'm just gettin some fresh air." 

  "Fresh as it can be in this city," the tiefling grumbles, rolling over to face the window and Fjord, haloed by the light.

  The sunlight catches on Mollymauk's jewelry, playing strange shadows against the scars on his chest, and the sea breeze in Fjord's lungs catches for a second. His smile stretches into a grin as he tells the tiefling, "We'd better get ready, the Crownsguard could come anytime." 

  "Yeah, yeah. Can't we just slam the door on them and be done with the place?" 

  Fjord's known Mollymauk for two days, and in that time they've both become part of a murder investigation, and Molly's already fed him a completely horseshit story about his swords, but - 

  There's something disastrous about Molly. Some shocking vulnerabilities are under the exterior, or projected onto the exterior, or make up the entire showman routine. Fjord has found that it's easy to become fond of disastrous people. He seems to be collecting them.

  He wants to keep them safe.

\---

  The gentle curves of the dunes and the pale silver moonlight are all that Fjord can see as he walks on the sand path that solidifies beneath his feet, one lone figure dripping saltwater as he moves. It's almost like someone has taken his hand at this point, like they're leading him forward. The sea air presses against his back, helping him move, almost a caress.  _ Hurry, Fjord, hurry _ . He aches in every muscle, this washed-up wreck of a man, but he pushes on.

  There, the path leads to an archway built into the side of the tallest dune. A twisted driftwood doorway somehow holding up the weight of the dense sand and grass atop it. Fjord stops, staring, before he feels again  _ hurry _ and stumbles in.

  He opens his mouth to speak and coughs, roughly enough that he has to stop walking and gasp for breath. 

  "You're dying," someone whispers, impossibly sad. Or impassive. Or angry. It echoes around the dark tunnel, seeming to come from everywhere. 

  "Excuse me?" he manages, with his breath back. And then, because he was raised to have manners, he calls out, "I'm sorry to walk into your home like this, but you see I've washed up on shore and I could use some help, if it won't put you out or anything." 

_  Hurry, Fjord, live, Fjord. _ And he moves down the twisting hallway, past strings of shells and sea glass and bone, into a wide cavern. There's a pool at the center, perfectly circular and full of pale light. The water within it glows, clear as air, casting odd blue ripples the walls and the man staring into it.  _ Hurry, hurry, come.  _

  And in the depths of the pool, resting gently in the sand, is a falchion. 

_ Now, Fjord, come.  _

  So he does what any sensible, shipwrecked, dying man would do - he takes the deepest breath he can, and dives.

\---

  The lake is no ocean, nothing close to the great green blue expanse, but Fjord has sailor's hands, even as an old man. It's enough to get their motley group to the island, the damn vile toad there. 

  It's been killing people, he knows, and that has to stop.  _ Here, now, tonight. _

  When he draws his falchion the wind in his lungs becomes a storm, a typhoon, a ship-killer, and the waves in his blood crash furiously in his veins. He casts with the rage of the ocean in his ears. 

  Clever Caleb Widogast bleeds red in the moonlight, and his floating lights wink out. Fjord knows what that means. So he strikes harder, angrier, vengeful because for all that he barely knows Caleb he admires the man. The magic is new and confusing and exciting, and Caleb is hungry to learn. Fjord knows what it is to have an empty place deep down inside, to be starving for something. The idea of Caleb dying so quick and pointlessly is ridiculous. And Fjord is here, so he won't. 

  He falls like an ocean on the fiend.

\---

  It's too deep, he's been a fool and his lungs burn as the edges of his vision grow murky and fill with shadow. 

_  Hurry, Fjord, you, Fjord, now now now now now so close -  _

  He keeps swimming deeper, pulling at the water - he grasps the hilt of the falchion and his vision whites out, all breath and sound forgotten. 

  And Fjord shakes his head in confusion, because he's standing on top of the tallest dune, perfectly dry, with someone staring at him. They're faceless, almost formless, a twist of sea fog staring at him. _ Fjord. _

  "Ah, yes, that'd be me. Can I help you?" 

  It speaks with a series of impressions: Waves wearing away at a crumbling shore, the bloated body of something he's never imagined floating in the surf, dark things lurking in undersea caves, ships wrecking, clear mornings, foggy evenings, and more and more and more.  _ Fjord, please, Fjord, mine? _

  He nods, overwhelmed, and seawater rushes into his nose and mouth and spirit and he is  _ gone. _

  Fjord rolls onto his side and heaves up water, coughing for what feels like hours, retching until there's nothing left. He's dripping wet, as if a wave just crashed over him. He pushes a tangle of seaweed out of his eyes and pauses. 

  He's on top of the tallest dune, bleached silver in the night, and he's covered in saltwater and brine. There are barnacles in the hems of his clothes and his hair is full of sand. He hears the waves, the wind, smells the dune grass and the salt, and - 

  Standing next to Fjord, half stuck into the dune, is the falchion.

**Author's Note:**

> I love the new campaign so much!!! As y'all probably know by now there are few things I like more than mysterious Deals and too much ocean imagery haha. I also really like the idea of a pact having a physical effect so I played around with that idea a little in this story.  
> Thanks for reading! This was really fun to write, please let me know what you think of it!


End file.
